“Do you think I could let him think that for an hour? for a day? Oh, no! no! Yes, I will go home to get my cloak and a bonnet, for you cannot go to London just in a little hat like mine; but don’t say to me, Uncle John, that I must not do it, for I WILL.” She took his arm again in the force of this resolution. Then she added, in the tone of one who is conceding a great favour: “But you may come with me if you like.” Between the real feeling which her words had roused in him and the humour of this permission, Mr. Moubray scarcely knew how to reply. He said: “I would not advise you to go, Effie. It will be better for me to go in your place if anyone must go; but is that necessary? Let us go quietly home in the meantime. You owe something to your father, my dear; you must not take a step like this without his knowledge at least.” “If you are going to betray me to Mrs. Ogilvie, Uncle John----” “My little Effie, there is no question of betrayal. There is no need for running away, for acting as if you were oppressed at home. You have never been oppressed at home, my dear. If Mrs. Ogilvie has written to Mr. Dirom, at least she was honest and told you. And you must be honest. It must all be spoken of on the true ground, which is that you can do only what is right, Effie.” “Uncle John,” cried Effie, “if to give up Fred is right, then I will not do it--whatever you say, I will not do it. He may never want me in my life again, but he wants me now. Abandon him because he is in need of me! Oh, could you believe it of Effie? And if you say it is wrong, I do not care, I will do it. I will not desert him when he is poor, not for all the--not for anybody in the world----” “Is that Effie that is speaking so loud? is that you, John?” This was the voice of Mr. Ogilvie himself, which suddenly rose out of the dim evening air close by. They had gone along in their excitement scarce knowing where they went, or how near they were to the house, and now, close to the dark shrubberies, encountered suddenly Effie’s father, who, somewhat against his own will, had come out to look for her. His wife had been anxious, which he thought absurd, and he had been driven out rather by impatience of her continual inquiries: “I wonder where that girl has gone. I wonder what she is doing. Dear me, Robert, if you will not go out and look after her, I will just have to do it myself,”--than from any other motive. Effie’s declaration had been made accordingly to other ears than those she intended; and her father’s slow but hot temper was roused. “I would like to know,” he said, “for what reason it is that you are out so late as this, and going hectoring about the roads like a play-acting woman? John, you might have more sense than to encourage her in such behaviour. Go home to your mother this moment, Effie, and let me hear no such language out of your head. I will not ask what it’s about. I have nothing to say to women’s quarrels. Go home, I tell you, to your mother.”